


Needs Must

by Temaris



Category: The Masqueraders - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Sex, a little voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin will just have to put on a dress again, and play Mistress Kate once more. A tragedy. Yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lbilover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/gifts).



> It seems in those franker times of the Jacobean period, Prudence and Robin have few secrets between them, and Prudence is not of a jealous bent.

"I am joining my wife, Mistress Merriot," Sir Anthony Fanshawe, presently holding himself out to be one Peter Merriot, says to the landlady. "I believe she is waiting for me?"

"Of course, sir," the woman says. "Mistress Merriot is expecting you in the back room, through this way, sir." She ushers him through a narrow, smoky hallway, and taps on the door. A faint voice tells them to enter. The landlady turns the door handle and pauses for a second. "Mistress Merriot took nuncheon just this half hour past, enough for two, but if-"

"Thank you, I am sure it will be plenty," he says with a nod. He jerks the door open, and steps quickly inside, shutting it quietly but firmly behind him. It's not a surprise, precisely, that they should somehow be once more trying to escape the results of some involuted plot of his father in law but he is somewhat taken aback at the dainty creature before him.

"Mistress Kate?" he asks. 

"Sir Anthony," Mistress Kate rises and sweeps him a curtsey.

Anthony shakes his head, somewhere between resignation and disbelief. "I see I am again last to know. Another change in plans?"

"The thing is," Robin said cheerfully, perhaps a little too cheerfully, "that the Old Gentleman has decreed that Pru has another job for now, and thus you are in want of a wife at this juncture. So! Me voici." He takes his seat once more, sweeping his skirts out gracefully. "The food is passing good," he adds, and licks his fingers clean of the quail whose bones only are left on the table.

Anthony stares some more at his brother in law. It has been some years since he last saw the Honourable Robin Tremaine in this rig, but he wears it as well as he ever did, which is to say, discomfortingly well for a man. "I left you a scant ten minutes at most--" he starts, bemused, although perhaps not entirely disapproving.

"A lady must have her little secrets," he says slyly, and Anthony is not reacting to the wide eyes and mischievous looks, it is merely that he had expected to see his lady wife, and has not seen her now in near enough two weeks. And Robin makes an uncommon pretty maid.

"Secrets. An entire wardrobe of secrets, belike," he says dry as dust, and Robin chuckles.

"Well, an the Old Gentleman were other than he is, we would not be who we are," Robin says with a little shrug that shows his pale décolletage and illusory cleavage to great advantage. "I think you would take the rough with the smooth."

"How badly have things gone, then? You cannot be comfortable in such clothes," he says, although he had no intention to say any such thing. But once restored to his male clothes, that Robin would willingly revert seems to speak to great need, surely. He shifts himself a little, hoping that Robin's eyes do not see the signs that he cannot apparently restrain, no matter how inapposite. 

"You think my wardrobe suits me not?" Robin says with a mock sorrowful look, and ducks his head demurely behind his filigree fan, delicate ebony and lace and painted with a startlingly bawdy scene, flicking his bright silk skirts out dismissively. "La, sir, you are like to break my heart." He gives a sniff that Anthony knows is fake, and still it tugs at his heart. Not that he allows an iota of that to show. No. He is well aware of Robin's facile lies and easy manipulation of emotion. He does not in any wise need to pander to the boy. Girl. Boy. "I admit, I had a fancy to wear my skirts, and shock our Mountain."

He shakes his head, trying to straighten himself out. Robin is Robin, and puzzling his behaviour out is nigh as futile a task as predicting my Lord Barham's excursions. "You wear it well, as you well know. My dear wife," he adds punctiliously, conscious of servants and plots alike.

Robin lowers his fan to reveal a flirtatious smile, "I did hope that I saw some sign that you felt --stirred." He lowers his eyes most pointedly on the final word, and Anthony swallows. He hopes that the cravat conceals, but to the sharp eyes watching him, it is of as little concealment as his breeches. Robin grins, all male understanding. "Oho," he says softly, and steps forwards.

"Prudence is surely on her way--" he says quickly, with a step back.

"I doubt it not," Robin says, and steps forwards. Anthony holds his ground, there is nothing in this, Robin but teases and tests, as he always has. For all his feminine garb, Anthony does not want to deceive himself that Robin is aught but lithe young man, and out of his reach. And then Robin's hands are on his arms, holding him lightly. His grip would not hold a child, but it feels to Anthony as though his feet are trapped in mud, unable to move, and his breath catches in his throat. 

"But she will be a while yet." Robin's voice is low, a little husky, and maybe it is his closeness that makes the room feel unseasonably warm. "Dear Anthony, you look--" He sweeps a comprehensive look over Anthony, the flush that he can feel burning in humiliating heat on his face; the heedless swell of his crotch, his prick apparently now a stranger to all propriety rising at the sight of a pretty -- boy -- in a dress. "You look in need of a friendly hand."

"I--" He shakes his head, unwontedly flustered.

"I too am feeling the heat. I was considering lying down while we wait." He flashes the most alluring smile at him, dimpling prettily, and he blinks, shakes his head. She is no she. "Perhaps, Sir Anthony," she -- he, dammit -- says breathily, "you might help me out. And I could --" Robin ducks his head a little lower, peeps up through his long lashes "--be of some little assistance to you too?" It is a look calculated and sinful and absolutely irresistible. 

He gives in. Steps in close, and bends to murmur into his brother in law's ear, "I hope you know, Mistress Kate, that Prudence and I have already made plans for such a contingency." Which is to say, that Prudence had noted his interest in Peter Merriot, and used her quick brain to contemplate the reverse, laughed heartily, and promised her husband exculpation should he forget himself.

Robin smiles slow and sly. "Oh, I know," he says. He rests a hand on his brother in law's thigh. "She and I keep no secrets." His pale hand slides higher over the soft knit of Anthony's breeches; only stops once he is cupping Anthony's groin. "I do believe, sir, that this," he squeezes a little, "is the last thing that we have not -- in common."

Anthony laughs, heat welling up through him. He fits more snugly into Robin's narrow hand by the second, rocks forwards a little just as Robin squeezes and he can't stop the low groan that escapes his throat. "You know entirely too much."

Robin leans in. He licks slowly up Anthony's neck, presses little bird light kisses along his jaw line until he's up to Anthony's mouth, and leans back for a moment. "Always," he says, eyes wicked, and holding Anthony's he puts his lips to Anthony's. At the last moment, Anthony closes his eyes, and then they are kissing.

Robin kisses like a wanton, passing from little nips and presses of his lips to reckless deep and wild. He could never pass as a maid, and Anthony says as much through the rapid kisses and eager tongue.

"Oh no, sir," he says, laughing, "I keep my Sunday best manners for those who need 'em."

"And I don't need 'em?" he inquires mildly, heartily amused. Robin squeezes again twixt Anthony's legs, and he moans, concedes the battle lost and lets his head fall back, leaning against the wall as pleasure bursts through him.

When he comes back to himself, Robin is licking his prick clean with firm little laps that do nothing to calm Anthony, quite the reverse. He finds himself rising once more to the occasion. Robin seems perfectly content to continue nursing and nuzzling at him, but Anthony is conscious that he has not done well by his partner. Even if they lack a bed, he should be able to find something.

"There is still butter on the table," Robin murmurs, and Anthony blinks lazily at him. "Or dripping in the pan by the fire. My dear Mountain. Mountain indeed," he adds, with wicked appreciation.

"A little hot, surely?"

"Better than too cold, my dear," he says. He lets Anthony guide him up, and smirks at Anthony's semi naked and unselfconscious display. "You have naught to be ashamed of," he adds, sliding long fingers from root to tip. Anthony shudders, and grips at himself to hold back.

"Lard then," Anthony says and Robin is there and back in a flash, his skirts rustling.

"I always had a notion to try this, though I admit, I expected 'twould be Master Peter Merriot, not Mistress Kate, that would tempt me in," Anthony says a little ruefully. 

Robin laughs, "We are perhaps, not quite as you once thought us."

Anthony takes the pan from Robin and sets it down carefully. "Are you sure?" he says, meeting Robin's eyes squarely. "It is entirely your choice."

Robin squints, as though already anticipating the next moments, and he laughs.

"Quite sure, dear brother," he says. "Have at it."

Anthony grins wickedly, and reaches down with both hands, grasps two great handfuls of hem, and in a single swift move, sweeps skirts, petticoats and all up. Anthony bunches them together above Robin's head so his arms are quite trapped, his face hidden, leaving him bare from the waist down. 

The sudden move appears not to have harmed Robin's excitement one whit, Anthony notes. Robin's prick is still standing sturdy and upright. As he watches, there is a hint of sag, a slight wilt, perhaps from the chill of the air, perhaps from the delay, and so he quickly walks Robin back onto the chaise longue, guides him down so his rear is displayed just short of the end, knees tucked under him, raising his fundament up almost to the perfect height. His upper body, tangled inside the voluminous skirts and not struggling at all, is trapped and still. 

Anthony steps back, and admires the picture set before him. He hitches Robin's arse up a little, and pulls the chair with its pan of lard closer, and carefully greases himself. It is long and long since he did this, but he knows to be careful. Robin's arse resists at first, and he rubs the tip of his prick over it, over and again, slipping in the grease, notching the flared head into the little hollow that is shaped so neatly to take a cock.

Little by little Robin loosens and then he is in, slipping deep with a groan of pure decadent pleasure. He pulls back as slowly as he can manage, reluctant to withdraw from that warm clasp, and enjoys the second plunge as much as the first, prick held snug in Robin's slick grip, his tight passage pulling and dragging on him with grasping pressure. Anthony tries to hold himself back from completing too soon, the rush of the act sparking bright and dizzying through his brain, until he cannot think at all, only feel, closing his eyes and breathing hard as he works harder and harder. Buried under his upturned skirts, Robin gasps, shoulders heaving and his arms scrabbling. Anthony relents, tugs back the layers of fabric with his greasy fingers. He can't help smiling at the picture that Robin presents, quite other than his normal neatly tricked out figure.

Robin is quite wrecked, his pupils blown wide, his face, usually immaculately powdered and patched, has runnels of sweat and tears revealing skin under his powder, his cheeks flushed a scarlet so vivid that there is no concealing it not with a peck of powder or a hundred patches.

"Is it well?" Anthony asks as gently as he may. Robin's grasp on him is tight in the extreme.

"A moment," Robin gasps out, and lets out a long moan as Anthony sinks back in to the very hilt. He's breathing hard, not entirely from exertion, Anthony fears, and he holds still. "You run ahead of me, somewhat." Anthony glances down, and realise that Robin is soft again.

"I beg your pardon," he murmurs, and sets to returning Robin to his former splendour. It doesn't take long and Robin is gasping out little nonsensical sobs and pleas, and then, like a miracle, he relaxes and Anthony slides in deeper still, fully accommodated in Robin's delicious arse.

They hold there for a long moment, and Robin gasps out a laugh. "Well then, good Mountain, finish it."

"Of course. Little sister," he says, and Robin's grasp tightens deliciously. Anthony starts to move, driving fully in and the dragging out in slow delicious reversal, making it as clear as he can that this is his game now, and whatever Robin had thought to trick him with, he is onto them.

"Oh, faster, harder," Robin moans, and Anthony tilts his head, considering, and then, thoughts of games and obscure point scoring forgotten, he picks up the pace. The two of them are grunting and straining together lost entirely in each other's carnal appetite, when Prudence's voice shook them both.

"Well now. A pleasure indeed to see the two of you getting along," she says briskly and walks in, wearing the mannish rig of previous years. She locks the door behind her and turns. "Although the two of you might have taken a moment to consider the poor serving girl."

"We trusted you for that," Robin says, as pert as he can muster, and she laughs.

"You mean you thought not at all of it, and would still be arse up, getting reamed for the world to see had I not come in."

Robin makes an odd sound and arches his back, Anthony holds still, desperately trying not to reach his own moment of glory as Robin clenches around him, clearly finishing. For a moment he thought his control might fail him entirely, grasps the edge of it with some relief, and then a second later loses all at his wife's amused words: 

"He always seemed to like it well enough when we were on the Continent, though I admit, I never had so close a seat to the entertainment," she says, and leans in to kiss her husband. "I have often thought it a great shame that he not benefit from what I have enjoyed." She smiles slow and warm at the two of them, and it is this which is Anthony' undoing. 

Anthony returns to himself a few dizzied moments later, a little startled at himself, at the sudden twist of excitement in him at the approval in his wife's voice, and aware of the two siblings gently teasing each other, the warm thrill of Prudence on his shoulder, her hand trailing over his sweating back, all the while with Robin's rear still encompassing him warmly.

"Enjoyable indeed," Robin agrees with a chuckle. He wriggles his hind quarters. "Are you done, brother mine?"

Anthony snorts, and then all words are stripped away as Robin flexes again around him, and he finds himself almost ready for a third encounter. 

Robin groans, "Again?" and Prudence laughs. 

"I warned you, did I not, little brother?" 

"I took it more in the nature of a promise," Robin throws back with a grin. "And I know you are both men of your word."

Anthony raises an eyebrow at his wife, who brushes her brother's hair back with a teasing hand, and then makes for the table and the half eaten repast waiting there. "Well, if it touches upon mine honour," she says easily, "what can I say but, lay on." She puts herself together a platter, and takes a seat, moving the chair to ensure her view stays unobscured.

Anthony grins, full and wide. "And cursed be he who first cries hold! Enough!" He pulls up Robin's hips, and starts moving once more, and Robin laughs breathlessly, nothing loath.


End file.
